High Standards
by An Preson Peepul
Summary: The law of mass states that mass can not be created or destroyed. This means any perceived increase of mass must have gained the mass added on from the increase in mass from somewhere else. Matter can't just come from nowhere, it has to be gained from an external source. Bottom line: This is a story in which Team Fortress' Sniper gets his 3 standards from Team Classic's Sniper.
1. Be Polite

"I'm a professional, and professionals, have standards."

Disclaimer: I do not really have a firm knowledge of how Australians speak, so I would like to apologize in advance for any discomfort my attempts at having people speak like Australians may have caused.

Anyway, I do not own Team Fortress 2 in any way, shape or form. Enjoy the show.

* * *

Two eyes scanned the Australian landscape, narrowed, focused, searching for even the most subtle of movements. Trailing the sight of his sniper along the tall, dry grass as leaves flitted in and out of his view, a bearded man sat on the lofty support of thick tree branches; watching, waiting for the slightest change.

He considered himself to the likeness of a predator. Like a viper, hunched over behind the cover of a thick blanket of leaves, he waited for the opportune moment when unsuspecting prey wandering right into his clutches before he struck. Right now, though, he was just watching to see when that moment would arrive.

The assassin often preferred this phase of his missions. The lining up the shot and pulling the trigger always came and went in the blink of an eye; a bit too quickly for his taste. Plus, he was never really fond of committing himself to calculations. It was the wait, the calm before the storm, the tense silence that weighed down the atmosphere that really got his blood pumping.

"Mundy! Come out wherever you are!"

All it took was the shrill sound of a child's voice to break the tense silence that hung in the air, as well as his concentration. With an irritated huff, the man glanced over his shoulder, searching for the source of the sound.

Standing in the middle of the field of grass were a group of three children, each of them appearing far more muscular than one would think possible for a child. To any normal person, this would certainly be a strange sight, but to someone who had spent more than a healthy amount of time in Australia would know that all Australians were naturally muscle bound. Well, most of them anyway.

"Come out," the child in the middle called out again, "I promise we won't hurt you. We just want to have a good ol' brawl."

"But won't that hurt him?" another asked. The first child, the one that the assassin would consider to be the leader of the group from the way he glared at the second, opened his mouth to reply, only to find himself unable to find a way around his point, and closed it again.

"Alright," he said, his voice slightly less confident than before, "We will hurt you, but... I mean..."

The man watched with amusement as the child struggled to find an appropriate follow up. Australians were known to incredibly strong, but they also had a tendency to be very stupid as well. They probably would have sent their civilization crashing to the ground if it weren't for this country's abundance of australium.

Then the man set his eyes to scan for the object of their search. Smaller size offered benefits of varying degrees. Out of all of them, the one he considered the most useful was that it made hiding a bit easier. Still, he was just a child, and if grown men who had spent more time training themselves in the art of stealth could not evade his sharp eyes, he was confident that he would be able to spot him.

The slight twitch of a blade of grass and the snap of wood was all he needed to tack down his position. In an instant, the man's eyes snapped onto a patch in the field of grass, where he supposed the child would be. As he watched a few blades of grass sway in an irregular way, he noted with interest that they appeared to be coming closer. Sure enough, a boy popped out of the rustling grass.

Quiet as a mouse, the boy crept over to the tree. His small hands gripped against the rough bark, patting against the trunk, his eyes wildly searching for something, anything to pull himself up against. It was obvious he was desperate to climb up the tree, but at the rate of his progress as of now, the other children would get to him soon enough if he didn't get any assistance.

"Hey kid." At the sound of a voice, the boy began to frantically look around. "Up here, in the leaves." Tilting his head upward, at first the boy couldn't see whoever was speaking. As his eyes began to focus, however, the boy managed to catch sight of the faint outline of a man sitting up in the tree.

Recognition flashed in the boy's eyes. "You?" he said, slightly stunned. "You're that American staying at my house! What are you-"

"Seeing the situation you're in right now, I'd assume you'd be more interested in how you'd be able to get up here with me, am I right?" the man drawled, shifting his weight on the branch.

The boy nodded eagerly. Moving his arm down without a sound, the man pointed to the tree trunk below him.

"First thing you want to do is wrap your limbs around the trunk," the man said, tapping the tree with a finger.

"You want me to hug the tree?" the boy asked in return.

"Do you want to get up or not?"

The boy quieted, before proceeding to wrap his arms around the tree trunk.

"Now pull your arms up a bit higher, and try to pull your legs up after, like an inchworm."

A huff escaped his lips as the boy began to pull himself up with all his might, and slowly but surely, he made progress in the climb upward. Then, someone spotted him.

"Hey, Mundy! What are you doing up there?" one of the boys shouted out. In an instant, little Mundy was thrown into a panic. He tried to increase his pace, inching up the tree faster. The light burn in his limbs did nothing to deter him as he climbed higher and higher. His hands were just inches away from the tree branches hanging above when suddenly, he slipped. His arms relinquished their grasp on the tree, and he fell backward off the tree. In an instant, the boy felt a set of wiry yet strong fingers grasp around his arm and yanked him up into the tree.

Secured on a perch high above the ground, looking down little Mundy's fear disappeared in a flash. A grin broke out on his lips, and he yelled, "Not so big now, are ya, you bloody wankers?"

"Why don't ya stop staying out of reach like a coward?" the first child yelled back, reaching out to grasp the tree with his hands and shaking it with all his might. In any other country, it would have snapped like a toothpick, but it appeared as if even the trees had adapted to the people of Australia's immense strength.

"It's not my fault you can't reach here, you just don't have the skills to get up here!" little Mundy said tauntingly. The other boy did not take this well, and he kicked the tree in rage. A low thunk was all he got in response, and with a ragged huff, he stormed off. The two other boys looked back at their quarry, hesitant to follow their leader. Eventually, they gave in and ran off in pursuit of the first boy.

As they broke after the ringleader, little Mundy couldn't help but yell, "Yeah, run away you bloody sons of-"

"Kid," the man said, silencing the child with a raised hand. "That's enough."

As the other children ran out of sight, the boy turned to the man, and he asked, "You're that American who's staying over at our house, right?"

"No use in denying that."

"What are you doing out here?" the child inquired.

"Something," the man said back in a tone that clearly stated he wanted the conversation to end there.

With a sigh, the boy slumped back. A few seconds of awkward silence passed between the two; the boy just stared off, deep in thought, as the man behind him sat in silence, completely focused on the task at hand. Eventually, the boy turned around to get a look at the assassin.

He caught sight of the rifle he held in his hands, and asked, "What are you doing with that big gun over there?"

"Hunting," was all he got in response.

"My dad says you ain't going to be able to kill anything out here with that," the boy said.

"Well, your parents can't be right all the time?" the man muttered halfheartedly, not even bothering to look up. "It ain't like they're gods or anything."

Little Mundy shot him an irritated look. Another moment of silence passed before the man finally turned back to the boy.

"Alright," he whispered, "you want to know the truth? The truth is, I'm not just any random homeless gun-wielding American." He hesitated, if not because he had begun to regret his choice, then for dramatic effect, before he said, "I'm an assassin who's been sent to Australia for a very secret mission."

"So... you're like a professional killer?"

The man looked a bit confused for a second, before he replied, "I guess you could say it that way. They're both the same thing."

Quietly, little Mundy repeated it to himself, testing how it felt rolling off his tongue. Not a moment had passed before the boy asked, "So how exactly does one become an assassin, professional killer, whatever."

"You learn from someone who's better than you, of course," the man said.

"Then could you teach me?"

At this, the man glanced at the child. "Why would you want that?"

"It looks cool." The man gave him an inquisitive look in response.

"And?"

The boy paused to rethink his next choice of words. "Well, my dad said that in the outback, you either kill or be killed, and choosing the former means beatin' the bloody pulp out of killer crocs and kangaroos," he said, "but as you can see, that is clearly not going to go anywhere, so I'd like an alternative."

A sigh escaped the older man's lips. "Alright," he said. Then he asked, "Are you sure you want to do this? Once you start, there's no going back."

"I don't plan to," little Mundy replied with a determined huff.

"The road will be hard and dangerous."

"I eat danger for breakfast," the boy said back.

"You sure?"

"No, I'm not kidding," little Mundy said with a frown. "You do know that mum's cooking could kill you if you aren't careful."

The man opened his mouth, but only hot air came out. His jaw clamped shut again, and he stroked his beard. "Well, I can't argue with that." He stuck out a hand, and little Mundy took it all too eagerly. Then he turned back to his original position.

At first, the boy thought he had turned around to fetch something for him. As seconds slipped by like water in a river, he realized that the man had just gone back to watching the grassy plain through the sight of his sniper. The boy cleared his throat, causing the assassin to turn his attention back to the child.

"Oh, you want to start now?"

Little Mundy nodded quietly.

"Well," the man said hesitantly, "The thing is, I don't really have anything for that."

The boy looked downcast upon hearing that. The man quickly added, "There is, however, one lesson I can teach you right now."

"Really?" the boy asked, brightening in an instant, "What is it?"

"A set of rules that an assassin must follow," the older man said. "A code of conduct for professional killers, in other words."

At this, the boy frowned again. "Rules? What kind of rules are there that even lawless assassins would have to follow?"

"These ain't exactly rules really," the man replied. "They're more of standards that you gotta hold yourself by."

"And I would assume you took these standards from the assassin who trained you? Like a secret code passed on through generations?"

The man shrugged, and he said, "Nah. I just made them up myself. Seeing how I'm passing them onto you, though, it could be a possibility."

"Alright. Lay 'em out to me, doc."

"One at a time, kid," the man said, patting the boy on the back. "The first rule is to be polite."

"Be polite?" Mundy asked in confusion. "Why would you want to be polite?"

"Nothing tarnishes your image as a professional than hurling insults at whoever you're going to kill," the older man replied. "Mocking someone makes you look childish and is a mighty fine waste of time."

"Yeah, but... I mean..." Mundy stammered, scrambling to find a counter-argument, "Isn't that just a human thing to do? Besides, why should I rugged assassin like, yourself and I, have to waste time worrying about something as trivial as manners instead of more useful things like learning how to kill some bloke from halfway across a thirty-meter distance."

The man replied, "Taunting people gives away your position if your quarry is still alive, taunting people while they're dead won't change anything, and it wastes time that could be spent doing more useful things and could get you killed."

Little Mundy paused for a moment, letting this new information sink in. His childish mind hastily assembled the pieces together, and only when the older man saw a look of understanding pass through the boy's eyes did he soften his expression to the smallest degree.

"So I'm assuming that insulting those other kids won't be acceptable in the future," Mundy asked.

"You got that right," the man said with a nod.

Once again, the pair fell into silence, the only sound being the soft rustling of leaves brushing past their ears. Slowly, the man turned his attention back to his weapon, his aged eyes trained on the sight. Then, the boy behind him spoke again.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"No," the man responded, an irritated huff in his voice, "but I'll teach you the rest in due time. There's no need to rush everything along now, is there?"

Again, the boy silenced himself. Wind swept through the leaves, combing through their hair as the two of them sat in the lightweight air of tranquillity. Little Mundy idly swept his eyes through the grassy plain that lay below, his mind spinning with the thought that he was now on the path to becoming an assassin.

Then the assassin brought up the most peculiar topic. "Besides," he said, his voice just as indifferent as before, "If you're going to insult them, it'd be best not to insult their parents, lest they happen to catch wind of your words and take unkindly to your remarks."

"I thought you said-"

"Well, you can't expect me to follow my own rules all the time. Everyone does a little rule breaking every now and then; more so that with their own rules from what I've seen."

* * *

Backstory time: The first time I read through the Naked and the Dead, after Team Fortress' sniper kills Team Classic's sniper, when he calls him a sadist, I thought there might have been some sort of deeper connection between the two as I didn't really think the other sniper acted like a sadist. So I decided to write about that.

Upon several rereadings of Issue #6, however, I realized that I was, in fact, an idiot, and had forgotten about the small print that came before and after the Classic Sniper's death that showed him as a sadist. But I decided to write this story anyway because the Classic mercs don't get enough love no one seems interested in writing anything about them.

(Actually, they all acted like jerks in the comics, I wouldn't think anyone would think they deserved any love at all)


	2. Be Efficient

Two chapters in four days? That's fast. Funny story; the last chapter was supposed to go up last week, but due to some writing issues, I couldn't get it up.

Anyway, this chapter is shorter than I would have liked, but I didn't want to wait another two whole weeks for ideas for a longer chapter to come to me, and I also write pretty friggin slow.

(but what about your other stories? you got chapters with about 5,000 words in one week, you call that slow?)

[Oh. Uhhhhhhhhhhh...]

Anyway, I don't live in Australia, I don't own TFC in any way possible, etc, etc, on with the show.

* * *

 _"For you see, I planted a bomb in the building linked to your the sound of your heart. The minute that train runs across the rope I've set across the tracks, the wall will fall to the ground and crush you underneath, causing the bomb to go off, destroying the bank and allowing me to steal all the money!"_

 _"You fool! You won't just kill countless people, you'll be blowing up the money as well."_

 _"Crikey, I forgot about that. No matter, all I care about is taking your bloody wife down with it."_

"Why couldn't he have just detonated the bomb directly?" the man grumbled from his seat in the corner, idly fiddling with the sniper rifle he held in his hands. "It just leaves more options for failure."

"I'm guessing you think the stuff you Americans have on the radio is much better than this," Mundy replied, keeping his eyes on the radio.

"Back home we have something called television, which is miles better than this radio stuff here," the older assassin said back, "but that's beside the point. My point is the more things you add on to your plans, the more things there'll be to fail, and the less likely your plan is to succeed."

"Well, the hero is supposed to be given a chance to win," the boy said. "It wouldn't make for a good story if the evil genius kills everyone in the end."

"Yeah," the assassin said, nodding in agreement, "but there are ways to give the hero a chance without making the bad guy look like a fool. If he was more efficient, I'd probably like this a bit more."

"Is that another one of your standards?" little Mundy asked.

"It is."

The two had been left alone at home. Both Mrs. and Mr. Mundy had gone out for an errand, so the pair had no fear about bringing weapons out in the open, or discussing assassin related topics, as they were doing right now.

"Really?" the boy turned to the man in surprise. The older man nodded.

"If given the option to shoot something down to get to your target or wait a few extra seconds to shoot him, you go for the second option," he said. "Fewer shots gives less of a chance for you to be detected."

"I'm guessing monologuing wouldn't pass either," little Mundy said jokingly.

"Nope."

"What if you miss your shot?" the boy asked.

"Same principle applies there," the assassin replied gruffly. "Every time you pull the trigger, someone should drop dead. If you get two or three, even better. The fewer shots you take, the less noise it'll make, and the less time you'll waste trying to kill your target."

"And why is wasting time so bad?" little Mundy asked. "A few seconds won't kill you, right?"

"You won't believe how many times I've died from mistakes that only took a few seconds to make," was the response. "Every second is another second someone could be using to hunt you down, each moment not spent on the move will be a moment someone could be using to track you down and kill you."

"That sounds nice," the boy said sarcastically.

"Never said it was a cakewalk, kid."

The pair fell silent. The static-y sound of the radio overtook the air once again.

"The life of an assassin," the older man said, "is often filled with uncertainties; Untamed, danger at every corner."

"Sounds like my kind of life," little Mundy replied, a childish grin breaking out on his face.

The assassin gave the boy a light pat on the back. "It's one to be proud of," he said back.

"Y'know," the boy said, turning off the radio with the push of a button, "We've been doing a lot of lessons all centered around mindsets, but I was wondering when we were going to start lessons on the actual assassin stuff."

At this, the older man stopped fiddling with the weapon in his hands. "Learning about the virtues of a professional killer is actual assassin stuff."

"I mean, something a bit more physical, like learning how to kill stuff."

"Ya mean like learning how to shoot this thing?" he asked, holding up the sniper rifle.

"Exactly," the little boy replied.

The older man chuckled. With a grunt, he pulled himself to his feet, weapon still in hand. "Funny you should ask that," he said as he made his way over to the boy, "as I was just getting ready to give this to you."

The boy's eyes widened as the man then handed him the sniper rifle. Tentatively, he reached out, and took it, his eyes tracing down its slim figure, inspecting it down to the finest detail. When he finally spoke, all he could say was, "Wow."

"Meet me by the water tower down the street at noon," the older assassin said, his voice unusually commanding. "Older assassins are never late, so I'd expect you to do the same, kid."

"I won't disappoint you!" little Mundy replied enthusiastically, his eyes overflowing with pride, having reached the next milestone in his goal.

A light grin made itself present on the man's lips, and he gave the boy a pat on the head, before he added, "Now hide that thing before your parents get home. Wouldn't want your folks to find out, now would we?"

The boy gave him a hasty nod, before he dashed off to his room, sniper rifle dragging behind. Watching the child disappear up the stairs, the man stole a glance at his own weapon, propped up against the corner. Quietly, he stepped over to it, carefully tracing his eyes along the rifle, from the bottom to the end of the barrel. He took it off the wall, and slipped it into the lengthy bag lying beside it.

As he closed it, his eyes lingered on a glimpse of metal stuffed inside the bag. A moment later, the bag was sealed again. A satisfied huff escaped his lips, and he leaned back against the wall, a low creak sounding off behind him as it bent under his weight. His shoulders relaxed, and a hand reached up to the brim of his hat, pulling it down over his eyes, allowing himself a moment of respite.


	3. Be Prepared

Well, here's the finale chapter for this story. And in a week as well, right on scedule. (For those of you who don't follow my other things, I have tried to set a weekly scedule for myself)

Maybe this had to do with the fact that I went on a vacation this week. Wifi was sparse and consistant sources of power were ever rarer, so I couldn't do video games because those drain the power of my computer incredibly fast, so I didn't really have anything else to do.

Anyway, I don't live in Australia so I don't know how people speak there (I met a guy from Australia this week. Does that count?) and I don't own Team Fortress 2. Enjoy the show, since I don't know how to properly transition here, I'll just let you pretend I put something smart and clever here. That sound good?

* * *

For whatever reason, little Mundy found himself unable to sleep. As silver strands of moonlight leaked in from the roof and the sound of insect chirping cradled his ears, the boy found himself lying awake, staring up at the ceiling.

Minutes ticked by of doing nothing, and eventually little Mundy began to feel bored. His eyes drifted to the weapon laid out beside him, and his mind went to all he had been learning. With his most recent lesson having ended only a few hours ago, as he tossed and turned, he began to have the urge to put his skills to use one more time.

Gently easing out of bed, the boy picked up his rifle, careful not to make a sound as he did so. He quietly made his way out of the room, his eyes flitting about in paranoia.

When he reached the door, little Mundy found that it was not as willing to cooperate as his floor had been. He slowly pulled it open, only to have a squeak sound off, echoing through the hall. The boy froze, fearful that he had been found. A second went by without another sound. Than another. Finally, the boy regained the courage to move, and he quietly pressed onward.

Small feet stepped against the floorboards, the boy making his way forward one step at a time. Very careful not to make the slightest sound, freezing if he felt the floorboards under him gave way even to the slightest degree, slowly but surely, he eventually made his way to the stairs.

Climbing downward was no easy task. When he reached the bottom step, he gently let himself down, and quickly picked up the pace once more. White streaks painted the floor beneath his feet as he carefully wound around items scattered on the floor. Each minute he spent stalking through felt as if it were stretched to an eternity, but eventually he did reach the door to the outside world.

Stepping outside, the boy's eyes fell on the water tower looming in the distance. He had spent hours there, firing upon targets laid out down below, and decided that it would only make sense put those same targets to use again.

The only sound that accompanied him on his journey was the rustle of the tall dry grass as the wind slipped through. The moon shone down on him as he stalked through the plains stealthily, his footfalls as quiet as that of a mouse thanks to extensive training from the older man.

Little Mundy was only a few feet from his destination, when a sound broke the silence of the night. He stopped, his eyes scanning the landscape. The only thing that caught his attention was a rickety old shed standing on the edge of the area.

Another sound, barely above a whisper, reached his ears. He heard traces of a scream, and a shiver crawled up his spine. Surely that couldn't mean anything good. His eyes hastily swept through the tall grass. All that dared stand above the tall dry grass was the shed lying a good distance away, and the boy quickly concluded that it was the source of the sound. Silently, he crept up to the broken down old shed, his finger lightly brushing the trigger, ready to fire at any given moment.

With the door towering over him, slightly unhinged and leaning to the side, the boy braced himself for whatever horrors lay inside. Slinging his weapon onto his shoulder, his eye staring through the sight of the weapon, he took a deep breath. Then, he kicked it open with a bang, only to find...

Nothing. At least, nothing but a giant crate standing alone in the corner.

Confused, the boy slowly lowered his weapon. He was sure the scream had been coming from the shed, but there was nothing in it. Unless, of course, the shed was haunted, but Mundy didn't believe in the supernatural.

Again, a sound resounded from inside the room, louder and clearer than before. This time, the boy was certain it was a scream, coming from beneath the floor. His eyes went over to the crate sitting in the corner, and a crawling suspicion entered his mind.

He pulled the crate over to the other end of the shed with some effort, and found a set of stairs leading down. Without a moment of hesitation, the boy slipped onto the stairs, and began his trek downward. He never realized he had left his weapon lying on beside the crate, sprawled out on the floor.

As he got closer, little Mundy heard soft voices trace past his ears, like a soft breeze. He went closer still, and the voices began to form words. Words that were quiet and calm, but intimidating at the same time, in a voice he recognized all too well.

"Let me say this again; where. Is. It? I know you're the one who hid it, and you ain't gonna get anywhere by stayin' silent, so why don't ya just spill?"

...

"Nothin? Well then, let me rephrase that sentence one more time."

Another scream sounded out. Little Mundy took one last step down the stairs, hoping that his assumption was wrong. As soon as he stepped into sight, the first thing that caught his eye was a man, his bare chest covered with all kind of wounds and cuts, strapped to a chair. A strange, bulky rectangular machine stood behind, connected to an alarming quantity of needles sticking out of his arms, each filled to the brim with a golden yellow liquid, shining in the dim light, and standing above him was the older assassin who little Mundy had been living with for all this time, holding a large knife in his hand that gleamed wickedly in the light, with his lengthy beard, and his calm, unnerved eyes. Only now, the little boy saw something in them his eyes he didn't notice before; a icy coldness that chilled him to the bone.

The boy could only watch as the assassin slashed at the poor man strapped to the chair, eliciting another cry of pain. He found himself unable to pry his eyes from the torture session, frozen in fear. Then, he caught sight of the man's dazed eyes on him, and he knew he had to leave before the assassin caught on.

"Kid."

At once, the boy stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned around, and his eyes met the icy, focused gaze of his mentor.

"You're gonna call the cops on me, aren't ya?" the assassin growled.

"What else am I supposed to do?" little Mundy shot back. "You're not an assassin, you're a bloody sadist. I know every trick up your sleeve, so there's no way you'd be able to stop me."

The older man chuckled. "Actually..." Slowly, he pulled out a small machine from his jacket, a small button decorating the top.

"We've been at this for... how long exactly? A few months? Two months?" the man said, his voice dangerously low. "On your first lesson, I told you three of the standards I've kept as an assassin. I've only taught you two so far. Now, it's time I taught you the third."

"What is that you're holding?" the boy asked, pointing to the object the older man held in his hand.

"A detonator," he replied, his tone remaining even. "On the first day I stayed at your house, I planted a bomb underneath. Since I was spending the most time with your follks, I figured they'd be the most likely to discover my actions, so I came prepared."

"You..."

"As an assassin, you should always be prepared for anything, be it getting mauled by a bear, stranded on an island, or even being found out by the ones who trust you the most," the assassin said, his gaze never leaving the boy.

Stunned silence was all that followed. The boy just stood in place, completely shocked. It only lasted for a second, but that second felt like the longest moment of his life.

"So," the man said, his voice laced with silent threats, "here's the deal. You'll walk out of here, forget this whole exchange ever happened, and I'll make myself disappear. You'll still have your family, and you'll never have to see me ever again. Does that sound good?"

Conflict swirled beneath the child's eyes as he struggled to find make the right choice. He opened his mouth to say something back, but his confidence crumbled before a word escaped his lips, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I'd knew you'd make the better choice," the older man said. "Now get out of here. You don't have any business in staying around."

With one last glance back at the older man, the boy couldn't help but to feel betrayed by the man he thought of as his mentor. He scrambled back up the stairs, and only when he had reached the top did he really feel spiteful at the older man. His eyes fell to the weapon lying on the floor, and in a moment of anger he kicked it, causing the sniper rifle to crash into a wall. Even after he left the shed, his mind lingered on the choice he had made and the final lesson he had learned down there for a long time after.

* * *

"Come in."

The assassin paused, his hand frozen over the wooden door. He knew this was something to expect with all his dealings with her; it's just that even after countless contracts, it still irked him how she had to shove in his face how she could detect his presence before he had the chance to announce it himself.

With an annoyed sigh, he pushed open the door without a sound. In the room, he was greeted to the sight of a chair facing away from the door, and a desk laid out before it. The assassin strolled over to the desk and placed a briefcase on top with a thud.

"Three pounds of australium, just like you asked," the man said. "Only two witnesses, both of which were dealt with swiftly."

"Excelent work," the Adminastrator replied, a small trail of smoke wafting into the air. "I've called for my assistant to meet you on the way out to hand you your reward."

"Alright," the man said, slowly readjusting his coat. He turned to leave, when the Administrator called out to him again.

"One minute."

"What?" the assassin asked, turning to look over his shoulder. The tall chair swirled around, revealing the Administrator to the light.

Aged fingers snatched a photo of a boy out from underneath the desk, before placing it on top. "You wouldn't happen to know this boy, would you?" she asked.

"I don't believe I do," the assassin replied. "Why does it matter to you?"

"I believe this boy is from the lost country of New Zealand," the Administrator said. "I also belive that there is a hidden stache of australium located in New Zealand, and if we can get to the boy, we might be able to extract its location from him."

The assassin paused. "I'm sorry," he said finally, "I can't recall ever seeing someone like that."

"Well let me know if it comes up," the elderly woman replied, handing the photo over to the assassin. He recived the photo wordlessly, before he turned around and left. As he closed the door, leaving the office behind him, he stole another glance at the photo. Out of the other eight mercenaries he had worked with, he had walked this hall the most, and had memorized the layout of the swarm of cameras that littered the walls. Just as he stepped out of sight of every camera trained on the barren hall, he crumpled the picture into a ball, and dropped it into the trash can beside him.

Perhaps he would be better if he just forgot all that had happened in his mission to the land down under.


End file.
